The Puppeteer
by Cambion Delacroix
Summary: It was under control, just how he liked it. With that, he smiled orbs of violet for once empty of frostbite and flames. AU-ish, sort of Russia/America, uhm... creepyish?


Many saw him as a puppeteer.

Callused fingers were dug into by the strings of his puppets, leaving them to shake, quiver, and tremble; his fingers having long ago lost complete steadiness. He thought fondly of his 'puppets', never allowing another to play with them. Few of them drifted, for they were loyal. That was how the puppeteer saw it.

Oh, his darling puppets; hand-crafted of wood and gentle paints, just for him. Should another's fingers grace their fine edges, well, that held but one solution! They were to be caught in a dance, long and exhausting to prove that he, indeed was the truest and best man to be behind those strings. 'They love to play,' he thought. 'I will let them remember that.'

And so, the cold nights and quivering fingers continued, their strings repaired upon every event of breaking. It was under control, just how he liked it. With that, he smiled, orbs of violet for once empty of frostbite and flames.

However, this control was a short thing to come by, he soon found. At night, while he rested and the crescent moon was high above, their puppet strings were snapped, the blades of the act sharp and stainless. Each time he would vigorously try to repair them, and each time he'd other leave the thread to fray and rip further.

On a night soon coming, the moon was full, and the golden petals of the bold sunflowers outdoors were beginning to wilt. The man exited his room, house slippers sliding smoothly across the cool floor. His goal was to catch the terrible one, the one who snitched and snatched his beloved toys, and catch he would! So he tiptoed, so very precise, to the room of his dear ones' case.

And there he was, brightly grinning without a care for the vandalization he had committed. His skin was fair, with eyes the color of sky the puppeteer hadn't seen in an unimaginable amount of years. Those eyes – they locked on the fading strings, and the barely moving limbs of his toys. The man, oh-so-quickly felt rage boil deep within him, ready to brim at the surface. Light blond eyebrows bent, as he hissed in a breath. The criminal's attention was brought to him.

He sneered. "Ah, so the villain's finally made his grand appearance!" What, him, the villain? This intruder made not a bit of sense, as he was the one who clutched onto the pile of hollow fingers and fine hair. They were all the puppeteer had to his name, to his heart! "Not to worry, 've got 'em all safe and sound…" so he went speaking empty promises, ones that the man never wanted to even hear. It left the much larger – yet so small-feeling – person in a daze.

In a moment, all was gone, and he could feel the frostbite fresh from eye to heel.

The man was quick, clean, and of course – precise as always. It was amazing what pain could do to sharpen the mind, truly amazing.

He'd walked barefoot in the freshly fallen snow, after the bold intruder to retrieve the precious ones. Yet, all he saw was a bonfire, alight with the smell of burning wood. He was too late; the puppets had been reduced to anything but that. They were simply ashes, remnants of what they once were. It was pointless, so pointless to try and retrieve them now. They were nothing.

Never had he experienced such a hollow feeling. He felt hollow as the very puppets he was the master of, wood carved on the outside, but an empty void of air where control and happiness ought to be. Even the frostbite has gone, the shivering in his toes removed.

The puppeteer wasn't aware if he preferred this or not. It wasn't until he stalked back home, his own puppet strings dragging behind him, that the lack of control shook him to the bone. Every laugh felt forced, every word muttered seemed to have been put there on purpose; there wasn't an art to it, and for that he wanted to cringe and grimace.

But how, the man wracked his brain, was he to gain control yet again? Melting droplets of snow raced down the strands of hair on his head, chilling his thoughts and halting his imagination. He couldn't think, couldn't get the ideas that were just on the brim of realization to make it past there. At least... At least not until the idea struck him, the snow having long since fallen from him indefinitely. With that, his cheeks rose in a childish grin, and the puppeteer was gone from his house, returning upon the snow once again.

One night not far from then, when the moon was silver with a shadow of darkness ready to capture it over, the man was hard at work. Gentle paints and rushing hands were to be used, to break in his new toy.

This new toy, however, needed little work. His colors were bold and oh, his struggling was an enchanting dance to be seen. The man simply had to make sure he knew his place - knew that this man was now his master. He had to sew in the strings to tie him down, to keep him nearby.

"Goodnight, Alfred," he whispered as he rose, a creak of the hardwood floor coming below him.

"God dammit, Ivan, get back he-!" But his call was futile, as the door was closed, the lock in the midst of turning. He squirmed and struggled, but alas, he was tied down, blue glossy eyes left to seem like nothing in the darkness.

'Even a criminal can become a good toy,' the puppeteer thought, laughing gently to himself.

Often, even he thought of himself as a puppeteer.

**A/N: Alrighty so, there's my first crack at Russia/America! It's rather... Odd, I have to admit. The puppets were the other SSR's, in case that wasn't clear. Oh and, VERY LITTLE OF THIS IS LITERAL.**

**Pop me a review?**


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